


it's not in his head, it's in his blood

by forgetpoundgivemekoenig



Category: Whiplash (2014)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-04-01 02:47:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4002931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forgetpoundgivemekoenig/pseuds/forgetpoundgivemekoenig
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Insomnia has never made anyone feel so alive. </p><p>(slightly unstable andrew jacks off to birdland)</p>
            </blockquote>





	it's not in his head, it's in his blood

Andrew is up late practicing a piece he'll probably never get to play when Terence Fletcher ( _the_ Terence Fletcher) decides to stand in the doorway, arms crossed and face blank, effectively ruining Andrew's concentration. He apologizes (for practicing, for making too much noise, for living) and Fletcher begins to berate and audition him at the same time. In the middle of his double-time swing, Fletcher leaves.  _  
_

Andrew breathes out a sigh (of relief, of frustration) and grabs the crash to make it stop ringing. When the door opens, he jumps and nearly knocks the whole set over. Fletcher looks at him and Andrew waits (to be told he made it, to be told to leave Shaffer). 

"Oopsy-daisy, I forgot my jacket." 

Fletcher lets the door bang shut and Andrew stares, open-mouthed, at the vacated spot. What the fuck did any of that mean? He doubts he made it into Fletcher's ensemble, but was Fletcher impressed? Did Andrew seem like he had potential? Or did he seem like a waste? 

(a waste, a waste, a waste)

(great, great, great) 

He slowly works himself back into the same fevered state he was in before. The state he's always in when he drums,  _really_ drums, and nothing else matters. He loses himself in the feel of skin ripping and repairing. He relishes the feel of vibrations (through the drums, through the sticks, through his arms). He's never gone in for that spiritual bullshit but his soul is in his drumming. If there is a heaven it's the level of greatness you reach when everyone knows your name, even when you've been dead for a million years. In a million years, he wants people to say his name. Over and over and over again. 

The night crawls its way into morning and he's still there when the first class arrives. They look at him strangely when they pass by (he's putting up his sticks) and he knows what they're thinking: who the hell is this kid? 

Andrew Fucking Neiman. 

That's who. 

That's  _fucking_ who. 

(somebody, somebody, somebody)

He's no Buddy Rich (not yet) and he's only an alternate in an ensemble not nearly as good as he wants. Walking back to his dorm room, that high fevered state leaves and he's left feeling empty. Feeling worthless and cold. There's only one thing he can do (drum) and he's not even any good. If Terence Fletcher took the time to spit on him he would say thank you. 

He feels as cold on the inside as it is on the outside. 

(nobody, nobody, nobody) 

His dorm room is empty except for posters and a bed. He doesn't have rehearsal until 12:00 PM so he can sleep for at least four hours before he has to get ready. The bed is comfortable enough. But he can't stop thinking. The sharp, staccato beat of the drums pulses in his ears. His heart seems to speed up and slow down as the drums do. He turns over and presses the pillow to his head, but even then the sound remains. 

It's not in his head, it's in his blood. 

His pulse is the gunshot retort of sticks on a snare drum and when he blinks he hears cymbals crash. He tries to force himself to think about the traffic outside and the soft measured sound of his breathing, but he was made for drumming. The beat continues and he taps his fingers on the mattress. He hums along to the part and moves his toes and his feet. At some point, he retrieves his battered old CD player from under the bed and puts on Buddy Rich. 

Birdland. 

The drumming is no longer his own. 

(one million years, one million years, one million years) 

Insomnia has never made anyone feel so alive. He lays in bed and imagines the sweat (the blood, the music) flowing from Buddy Rich as he plays. If you sliced him open you would find quarter notes and measures and fire inside. 

Jo Jones had to throw a cymbal at Charlie Parker's head before he got it. 

(throw a cymbal at me) 

Birdland finishes and he starts it over in a dreamlike state. The music has taken him far away from Shaffer and Terence Fletcher. He's Buddy Rich. He's Charlie Parker. He's the greatest drummer to ever live. 

He's found that high, feverish hysteria again. He fucks his fist and restarts the CD and does it again. Birdland and jacking off and insomnia. The room is hot and heavy and he's sweating like Buddy Rich when he plays the last measured beat. 

(faster faster faster) 

The slick of his hand against the warm skin of his dick. If he could play as fast as he can jack off he would be better than Buddy Rich. He imagines how it would feel to play so fast the skin on his palms was worn completely away. 

Sweat stings in open blisters. 

(restart the CD) 

(restart the CD)

(restart the CD)

The CD is scratched and skips. He tosses the CD player at the wall and stares wide eyed at the ceiling. He slowly relaxes into the pillows. He thinks maybe this time he can get some sleep. 

He closes his eyes. 

He breathes evenly. 

And he can hear the drums start tapping from far away. 

(it's not in his head, it's in his blood) 

(it's in his blood) 


End file.
